The Arsonist's Handbook

by L. A. Detwiler

  I do the mental math. I look at him in wonderment. The faceless man has a face—but is it the face I wanted?

  I try to yell. I try to say the word, “Dad.” Could it be him, after all? Did he find me?

  But if this is my father, what is he doing? This isn’t the reunion I wanted.

  He looks crazed. He’s been talking to himself out here, something about Tanner and how I have to pay. I don’t understand. Who is he? What does he think I’ve done?

  I didn’t do that. I did lots of things, but I didn’t kill an infant. This can’t be my father then. This isn’t him. The faceless man of my dreams remains faceless. This man with a very clear face is, instead, the one of nightmares.

  If he could take the tape off, he would understand. He would hear my story. He would know I’ve done bad things, but not what he thinks. I didn’t kill his son.

  The star-filled sky is hazy through my blurry vision, through my tears. The cold of the night bites through my sweatshirt and numbs me but not enough.

  Someone help me. Someone, please find me. I have been lost for years, but I need to be found now. I need someone to be found.

  As he stalks back and forth shouting insults and talking about revenge, vomit rises. I try to quell it, not wanting to die from choking on my own puke.

  Dad, please, where are you? Where is the man who is supposed to save me, who is supposed to be there for me?

  My father is an arsonist.

  This man before me, though, is simply deranged.

  I am the son of an arsonist, alone in a field where I am pretty sure I am going to die.

  Save me. Please. I can’t save myself. Someone needs to save me.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Pete

  Pete had imagined this moment for weeks. He had thought of the theatrics, imagined the words he would say. He pictured all sorts of scenarios in his head. But now that he was dragging the kicking boy to the middle of the field, none of it seemed particularly sensible. And, in truth, Pete was hungry for the job to be done. He ached to see the boy burning in a puff of smoke. His fingers twitched as they grasped the silver lighter. It was time. There was no use for theatrics or stalling.

  The boy had to pay. Tanner needed to be avenged. It all needed to be set right.

  He tossed the heap of human into the middle of the field. He flicked the lighter for good measure. He stared into the pleading eyes of the boy who had killed his son.

  For another instant, he thought about ripping the tape off to hear what the boy would say. What would he choose as his last words? Pete knew. They were the words written in his eyes. Some sad excuse about how he didn’t do it. How he wasn’t the one. He would beg and plead for his life, and Pete couldn’t handle that weakness.

  Pete thought about what he should say. In his visualizations of this moment, he had cursed and sworn. In some versions, he painted a sad portrait of his lost son. In others, he kicked the shit out of the guy before the final act. But now, looking at the heap of trash on the ground, Pete felt nothing but numbness. Maybe he realized how freaking tired he was. How much of a toll it all had taken on him, body and mind. Or maybe, like so many say, it’s the chase that is invigorating and not the final moments.

  Pete walked back to the car to retrieve the final item for the deed—the gasoline. It wasn’t like he needed it, but it felt fitting to use the boy’s can of gasoline. It felt full circle somehow. He traversed the tall, dead grasses of the field and carried the red can back to the body in the field. Pete kicked him with his foot for good measure, stepped back, and stared.

  Tears fell from the boy’s eyes, Pete realized as he put his attention back where it belonged. The boy’s screams echoed on the chilled autumn air, a desperate raven’s song resonating in the desolation of the field. His shrieks sounded more feminine than male. The commotion was pointless. No one heard him beg for his life, and no one who would save him, anyway.

  He perused the boy’s body as sobs racked him. Sneering, hands in his pockets as he stood over the flailing boy, he realized he felt nothing. Drowned in a sea of apathy brought on by circumstance, by time, by choices that both were and weren’t his own, he deadened inside. Perhaps, he was too far gone after all.

  A few months ago, there might’ve been hope. He might not have handled the situation with gasoline, terror, and a frenzied desire for burning flesh. His stomach would have turned at the thought of blackened skin and melting faces and death. He possessed his share of demons, certainly. Always had. Nonetheless, they were fiends that could be calmed, could be stowed away at least. These latest demons were of the soul-shattering variety.

  He used to be a mostly good person. That person expired with the tragedy that forever morphed him. Circumstance, time, and sorrow metamorphosize even the most steadfast heroes eventually.

  The field sat empty, save for the two of them—the victim and the murderer. The lost and the found. The prey and the hunter. But who was who? It was impossible to tell anymore.

  The moonlight illuminated his pleading eyes, which incited an even stronger version of the primal hunger within. He needed to see him beg. He reveled in the sound of his jagged breaths as he realized his time to meet death had come.

  It wasn’t a good way to die, after all. He knew this all too well. The images that haunted his dreams and his nightmares reminded him of the terrors of it all. And, in the sick depths of his soul, he extended gratitude for the searing pain the boy would endure. He deserved it. He fucking deserved it. Thus, without another thought, he doused the hoodie in gasoline, sprinkling it all over his victim recklessly but with purpose. He stepped back, wondering if the whole field would burn until they found him. Considering how fast he could get away or if he even should. It didn’t matter anymore. He’d lost it all. This was all he needed now.

  From a distance, he flicked the lighter, thinking about stepping toward the fireball and ending it with him. But the shrieks that were more supernatural than humanistic sent a shiver of delight through him. He stared as it all ended quickly but beautifully, the conflagration sparking something even darker within him. Dazzled by the blaze, he almost forgot to move.

  He didn’t expect this. After all that had happened, he could’ve never expected to feel the overwhelming relief as the fire burned.

  Hope. Peace. Gratitude. These were the emotions that filled him now and validated it all. It had been worth it. It was worth every ounce of effort for the precious release he could finally indulge in. With the smell of burning flesh and misery cutting through the autumn wind, he turned and marched through the forest. He left the clearing to burn.

  Let it burn. Let them burn. Let it all burn, he thought as he whistled his favorite song. Peace had, after all, come at last.

  The stars twinkled, he noticed with a grin. The boy would agree if his eyes were still able to see the sky.

  ***

  Tranquility came heavily to Pete as he drove onward toward the motel that was not a home but simply a place to rest his head. The radio off, he drove onward in silence, the image of the burning boy seared into his head.

  He hoped in his final moments the boy had thought of his son, the boy he murdered. It was poetic justice that the bastard burned alive as he’d done to so many. Still, even though Pete tried to tell himself all was okay now, that he’d done his duty, a niggling thought kept twirling in his mind.

  Watching the boy burn had made Pete realize what Tanner had endured. And sure, burning the asshole alive had to be done. But it didn’t take away the fact that Tanner had suffered. It didn’t take away the fact that somewhere out there, the boy’s parents didn’t know someone had killed their son, too.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks for his son. For injustice. For justice. For a whole lot of fucked-up shit. He swiped at his eyes, settling his mind on the feeling of happiness he felt watching the flame. At the sick and twisted knowledge that the murderer was gone at his hands.

  He drove into the night to get the first good night’s sleep he had in a
long time.

  The reckoning had come at his hands.

  The Ace of Diamonds

  He used to call me the Ace of Diamonds, my father did. When I was young, I didn’t know where the nickname came from. When I was thirteen, I asked him.

  “It’s my favorite card,” he said and shrugged. I had smiled, recognizing it was the closest thing to love my father could express. Thus, when I got serious about my work, I decided the Ace of Diamonds would be my calling card.

  Why leave a calling card? Why be so reckless, especially when I’ve told you to be careful?

  It’s true. Leaving a signature at the scene isn’t wise. It would be better to fade into the background, to be sheer oblivion. To be a thief in the night without fingerprints or identity. Still, if you’ve ever done this work, you know the work of an arsonist is about being unseen—but also about being seen. It’s about a need to be noticed, to be awe-inspiring, to be feared. There’s something so satisfying about watching them connect the dots, about adding to my résumé of power. I like to get credit, even if they don’t know it’s me they’re giving it to.

  I’ve left the Ace of Diamonds at every fire I set. It’s a trail of breadcrumbs for my memories and my legacy.

  My father was an arsonist.

  I am an arsonist.

  I, in short, am the Ace of Diamonds.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Darla

  He’d been gone two days. And although Darla Wills knew her son was squirrely and an oddity in his own right, the boy had never run away. He’d never disappeared like this. She knew something was wrong. She was never a strong motherly figure. She knew that. There were other things to occupy her days, things to keep her busy. Hell, survival kept her incredibly distracted as it was. Being a single mother for all this time wasn’t a walk in the park, especially on the wages she made at the bank.

  Her supplemental sources of income also demanded much of her time. There was the diner, with Joe, and then there was the other work. The less difficult work in some ways. The work where she could be free to exercise her need for power.

  Add to that her side hobby, and there was little time to heed her calling as a mother.

  She’d never wanted to be a mom. The cold, harsh truth stayed hidden but perceptible. She didn’t dare utter aloud—she didn’t want to fuck her son up completely. But it was a reality she’d admitted to Jameson’s father over and over again. It was also a reality the universe didn’t obey because not long into their relationship, she found herself pregnant.

  When Jameson came along, she did feel an urge to protect him. She wanted to guard him from the sinister track that claimed her. She naively considered for a long while Jameson could be different, normal, good. She’d tucked away that portion of her life for a while after his father disappeared. She’d hidden away the piece of her she’d kept hidden from everyone all along.

  But in recent months, the desire strengthened.

  Debts needed to be paid.

  The malicious burning inside her had emerged, prompted by a need for revenge and a desire to showcase her power.

  Yes, she’d been preoccupied these past few weeks, months even. But Jameson didn’t need her meticulous care. He was practically grown and capable of caring for himself. At least she told herself that night after night.

  Staring out the window like a forlorn woman, though, guilt assaulted her. She should’ve paid more attention. She should’ve taken the time to shelter him from the harshness of the world. She shouldn’t have been so hellbent on pursuing her own selfish needs and wants.

  Something was wrong. She could feel it in her cold, depraved bones. She pulled her cardigan around herself tightly, ignoring the call on her cell phone from Joe asking where she was. She stood and watched, keeping a vigil for the son she sensed was gone from this world.

  Her fingers itched to dial the numbers for the police. It had been—what? Forty-eight hours? She could certainly call them at this point. But she didn’t. More self-centeredness stirred in her. She squeezed her arms tighter and stared into the star-lit sky. Inhaling, she knew it was pointless in the way a mother knows but can’t explain. A single tear slid down her face, but no more. She’d learned long ago there was no sense in weeping for the forsaken or the dead.

  Ashes didn’t have any feelings, after all.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Pete

  Dressed in his best suit, the one Anna always thought made him look sexy, he parked the car outside of her parents’ house. He felt like he was on a first date again or like the day he asked for her hand in marriage. It was like some shit out of an archaic love story. In a way, he supposed this was a fresh start for him, although not a rosy one. The time had passed for saving.

  The scent of the smoke had long since left his freshly washed hair and the beard that had emerged. He’d laundered the outfit he’d worn to the reckoning. A part of him thought about tucking them in a garment bag for safekeeping, a sort of souvenir from the work he’d done. Another darker part of him wished he hadn’t scorched him alive so hastily. He should’ve saved some sort of keepsake from the body to prove his words were true instead of the lackluster item he’d snatched from the boy. He imagined the look on Cathy’s face if he stood on her doorstep with a boy’s severed head dangling in his fingertips. He smirked at the thought of her reaction. If he were lucky, maybe she’d fall over dead.

  But things were different. Still, they were righteous. They were just. An eye for an eye. Wasn’t it the old standard of justice? Perhaps it was time they brought it back. Pete had.

  He might get caught. Who was to say? It was a foolish thing to confess to Anna what had happened. It was a risk. She could go to the police. Still, he felt the urge to tell her. Partially because he had killed the boy for her. It had been a badge of honor, a duty of his manhood. He had to avenge Tanner’s death for his family. He’d done it for them.

  The other covert part of him hoped Anna wouldn’t turn him in as a sign of loyalty to him. He hoped maybe this would bring some sort of forgiveness, that in some way she’d find her way back to him over time. If she kept the secret, it would show they were a unit. A Clyde with a hint of Bonnie, two people against the unjust, twisted world.

  And perhaps, if he were being honest, an even more blatant part of him didn’t care what happened. He didn’t care if he got caught, if he were executed, if he paid the ultimate price. Life wasn’t much to write home about these days. He thought of the gloomy motel, the empty picture frames sitting on the mantle of his heart. The haunting vision of a son whom he would never hold again creeped through all of his days and would do so until the end.

  He would be fine if it ended. Who wouldn’t be?

  He inhaled, checking his hair in the rearview before strolling up the steps. He prepared himself to face meddling Cathy. He was in the frame of mind to knock her out if she tried to get in his way. The flames stirred a greedy power in him he could no longer deny.

  Hands in his pockets, he tried to assuage the nervous jitters creeping through him. He opted to knock on the door instead of pushing the doorbell, which felt inexplicably impersonal to him. After a moment, footsteps sounded. When the door swung open, he was relieved to see Anna.

  After so long apart, it was strange seeing her in person. The mind always conjures a different image than reality, and she didn’t look quite like he’d recalled in his visions. For one, her hair was down and curly instead of in its prim and proper, signature bun. For another, her eyes looked heavy, and her skin was no longer the glowing visage he remembered.

  “Hi,” he offered dumbly, hands still in his pockets.

  “Hi,” she replied, her voice soft. She didn’t kick him off the porch. He took it as a good sign.

  “Do you want to come in?” she asked.

  But he didn’t. This was too personal to share in the confines of Cathy’s outdated living room where photos of Anna would stare down at him. Where photographs of his son plastered every inch of the wall. He didn’t
think he had the strength to face it.

  “I’m okay. I just came to tell you something.”

  She stared at him expectantly, like a child looking at a parent when she gets injured. It was as if Anna hoped he could say something that would magically make it all okay again. In a sense, it was the closest thing he could offer her to being okay.

  He reached into his right pocket and pulled out the camo print wallet. He handed it to her. With a hesitant hand, she reached out to take it from him. Her fingertips lightly brushed his, sending a jolt through him. He wondered if she felt it, too.

  Confused, she flipped open the wallet. His license was in the front, see-through window, along with five dollars, and a card to the local gas station. Anna glanced at it, still dazed.

  “I don’t understand,” she announced softly, brushing her fingers through the slots before looking up at Pete.

  “It’s his. I found him.”

  “Who?” she asked, still not following. Pete felt agitated. Who else would it be? Hadn’t she been living, breathing the same thoughts he had been?

  He pushed the frustration down. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t thinking clearly. That was a man’s job, and he had done it for them.

  “The boy who killed Tanner. The arsonist. It was him.”

  She shook her head, squinting like he’d seen her do so many times. Like she had when she couldn’t figure out the answer to the crossword puzzle on Sundays in the Times. Like she had when she was trying to figure out how many days until Christmas—mental math was never her thing. The squinting was endearing, and he smirked.

  He shifted his weight to his left leg.

  “I don’t understand,” she repeated.

  He exhaled. “I found the arsonist. I found Tanner’s killer. And I got revenge.” He nodded his head to the wallet. Anna’s fingers stroked the picture on the license, and tears started to fall.